Lord Arleigh had been so accustomed to think of Philippa as a child that
he could with difficulty imagine the fact that she was now a lovely
girl, and one of the wealthiest heiresses in London. He felt some
curiosity about her. How would she greet him? How would she receive him?
He wrote to her at once, asking permission to visit her, and he came
away from that visit with his eyes a little dazzled, his brain somewhat
dazed, but his heart untouched. His fancy was somewhat disturbed by the
haunting memory of dark, splendid eyes, lighted with fire and passion,
and a bright, radiant face and scarlet lips--by a _mélange_ of amber,
lace, and perfume--but his heart was untouched. She was beautiful beyond
his fairest dreams of woman--he owned that to himself--but it was not
the kind of beauty that he admired it was too vivid, too highly colored,
too brilliant. He preferred the sweet, pure lily to the queenly rose.
Still he said to himself that he had never seen a face or figure like
Miss L'Estrange's. No wonder that she had half London at her feet.
He was pleased with her kind reception of him, although he had not read
her welcome aright; he was too true a gentleman even to think that it
was love which shone in her eyes and trembled on her lips--love which
made her voice falter and die away--love which caused her to exert every
art and grace of which she was mistress to fascinate him. He was
delighted with her--his heart grew warm under the charm of her words,
but he never dreamed of love.
He had said to himself that there must be no renewal of his childish
nonsense of early days--that he must be careful not to allude to it; to
do so would be in bad taste--not that he was vain enough to think she
would attach any importance to it, even if he did so; but he was one of
nature's gentlemen, and he would have scorned to exaggerate or to say
one word more than he meant. Her welcome had been most graceful, most
kind--the beautiful face had softened and changed completely for him.
She had devoted herself entirely to him; nothing in all the wide world
had seemed to her of the least interest except himself and his
affairs--books, music, pictures, even herself, her own triumphs, were as
nothing when compared with him. He would have been less than mortal not
to have been both pleased and flattered.
Pressed so earnestly to return to dinner, he had promised to do so; and
evening, the sweet-scented May evening, found him once more at Hyde
Park. If anything, Philippa looked more lovely. She wore her favorite
colors--amber and white--a dress of rich amber brocade, trimmed with
white lace; the queenly head was circled with diamonds; jewels like fire
gleamed on the white breast; there was a cluster of choice flowers in
her bodice. He had seen her hitherto as a girl; now he was to see her as
the high-bred hostess, the mistress of a large and magnificent mansion.
He owned to himself that she was simply perfect. He had seen nothing in
better taste, although he had been on intimate terms with the great ones
of the earth. As he watched her, he thought to himself that, high and
brilliant as was her station, it was not yet high enough for her. She
flung a charm so magical around her that he was insensibly attracted by
it, yet he was not the least in love--nothing was further from his
thoughts. He could not help seeing that, after a fashion, she treated
him differently from her other guests. He could not have told why or
how; he felt only a certain subtle difference; her voice seemed to take
another tone in addressing him, her face another expression as though
she regarded him as one quite apart from all others.
The dinner-party was a success, as was every kind of entertainment with
which Philippa L'Estrange was concerned. When the visitors rose to take
their leave, Norman rose also. She was standing near him.
"Do not go yet, Norman," she said; "it is quite early. Stay, and I will
sing to you."
She spoke in so low a tone of voice that no one else heard her. He was
quite willing. Where could he feel more at home than in this charming
drawing-room, with this beautiful girl, his old friend and playmate?
She bade adieu to her visitors, and then turned to him with such a smile
as might have lost or won Troy.
"I thought they would never go," she said; "and it seems to me that I
have barely exchanged one word with you yet, Norman."
"We have talked many hours," he returned, laughing.
"Ah, you count time by the old fashion, hours and minutes. I forget it
when I am talking to one I--to an old friend like you."
"You are enthusiastic," said Lord Arleigh, wondering at the light on the
splendid face.
"Nay, I am constant," she rejoined.
And for a few minutes after that silence reigned between them. Philippa
was the first to break it.
"Do you remember," she asked, "that you used to praise my voice, and
prophesy that I should sing well?"
"Yes, I remember," he replied.
"I have worked hard at my music," she continued, "in the hope of
pleasing you."
"In the hope of pleasing me?" he interrogated. "It was kind to think so
much of me."
"Of whom should I think, if not of you?" she inquired.
There were both love and reproach in her voice--he heard neither. Had he
been as vain as he was proud, he would have been quicker to detect her
love for himself.
The windows had been opened because the evening air was so clear and
sweet; it came in now, and seemed to give the flowers a sweeter
fragrance. Lord Arleigh drew his chair to the piano.
"I want you only to listen," she said. "You will have no turning over to
do for me; the songs I love best I know by heart. Shut your eyes,
Norman, and dream."
"I shall dream more vividly if I keep them open and look at you," he
returned.
Then in a few minutes he began to think he must be in dream-land--the
rich, sweet voice, so clear, so soft, so low, was filling the room with
sweetest music. It was like no human voice that he remembered;
seductive, full of passion and tenderness--a voice that told its own
story, that told of its owner's power and charm--a voice that carried
away the hearts of the listeners irresistibly as the strong current
carries the leaflet.
She sang of love, mighty, irresistible love, the king before whom all
bow down; and as she sang he looked at her. The soft, pearly light of
the lamps fell on her glorious face, and seemed to render it more
beautiful. He wondered what spell was fast falling over him, for he saw
nothing but Philippa's face, heard nothing but the music that seemed to
steep his senses as in a dream.
How fatally, wondrously lovely she was, this siren who sang to him of
love, until every sense was full of silent ecstasy, until his face
flushed, and his heart beat fast. Suddenly his eyes met hers; the
scarlet lips trembled, the white fingers grew unsteady; her eyelids
drooped, and the sweet music stopped.
She tried to hide her confusion by smiling.
"You should not look at me, Norman," she said, "when I sing; it
embarrasses me."
"You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Philippa," he
rejoined. "What was that last song?"
"It is a new one," she replied, "called 'My Queen.'"
"I should like to read the words," said Lord Arleigh.
In a few minutes she had found it for him, and they bent over the
printed page together; her dark hair touched his cheek, the perfume from
the white lilies she wore seemed to entrance him; he could not
understand the spell that lay over him.
"Is it not beautiful?" she said.
"Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal this poet's
queen."
"You do not know--you cannot tell, Norman. I think any woman who loves,
and loves truly, becomes a queen."
He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice--wondering at
the expression on her beautiful face.
"You are incredulous," she said; "but it is true. Love is woman's
dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes a queen; her heart
and soul grow grander, the light of love crowns her. It is the real
diadem of womanhood, Norman; she knows no other."
He drew back startled; her words seemed to rouse him into sudden
consciousness. She was quick enough to see it, and, with the _distrait_
manner of a true woman of the world, quickly changed the subject. She
asked some trifling question about Beechgrove, and then said, suddenly:
"I should like to see that fine old place of yours, Norman. I was only
ten when mamma took me there the last time; that was rather too young to
appreciate its treasures. I should like to see it again."
"I hope you will see it, Philippa; I have many curiosities to show you.
I have sent home treasures from every great city I have visited."
She looked at him half wonderingly, half wistfully, but he said no more.
Could it be that he had no thought of ever asking her to be mistress and
queen of this house of his?
"You must have a party in the autumn," she said. "Lady Peters and I must
be among your guests."
"That will be an honor. I shall keep you to your word, Philippa." And
then he rose to go.
The dark, wistful eyes followed him. She drew a little nearer to him as
he held out his hand to say good-night.
"You are quite sure, Norman, that you are pleased to see me again?" she
interrogated, gently.
"Pleased! Why, Philippa, of course I am. What a strange question!"
"Because," she said, "there seems to be a cloud--a shadow--between us
that I do not remember to have existed before."
"We are both older," he explained, "and the familiarity of childhood
cannot exist when childhood ceases to be."
"I would rather be a child forever than that you should change to me,"
she said, quickly.
"I think," he returned, gravely, "that the only change in me is that I
admire you more than I have ever done"
And these words filled her with the keenest sense of rapture yet they
were but commonplace enough, if she had only realized it.